


Zombies Walk In Our Stead

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-sacrifice is as much a part of the Winchester family business as guns and salt. What if Dean wasn't the first of the brothers to make a deal for the other one's life? During a cold winter when Sam's fourteen, Dean gets sick. He's about to die when Sam gets approached by a demon and makes a deal similar to the one Mary made for John: Dean lives, and the demons get to call in a favor in ten years time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapertownusa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/gifts).



> I started this almost three years ago, for the spn_gen_bigbang on LJ, but things happened and it wasn't supposed to be finished. I got it done a year and half ago, and then other things happened. There was supposed to be art by reapertownusa, and it will come at some point, but there are things happening on her end too. Long story short: here's some fic. It's old. But I did pour my heart and soul into it once upon a time, and I hope some of that shows on the page. 
> 
> Oh, and just to avoid raising expectations that may end up being disappointed: there are no actual zombies in this story. ;)
> 
> Beta-read by smilla02 and nwspaprtaxis, jacyevans helped me brainstorm and a lot of other people listened to me whine about this thing. Thank you! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Phantom Limp" by The Shins.

**Spirit Lake (Idaho), December 1998**

With the life they're leading – always on the move and free to pick any place that has creatures to kill – one would think that they'd spend summer in places where heatstroke is a myth heard about only on television and winter in an area where it hardly ever snows. But, no. Of course not. With astounding accuracy, Dad manages to land them in Miami in the worst of a heat wave or smack in the middle of the Snow Belt in December. It's almost like he plans it that way, to toughen them up or something.

Sam draws his jacket closer around himself, readjusts his scarf to minimize the amount of biting cold air that manages to sneak past. His nose hurts and it's running a little, but he's alone out here, no one's going to see him and he's lost his gloves in school two days ago; his hands are nice and sort-of-almost-toasty in his jacket pockets, and that's where they're _staying_ , thank you very much. 

He huffs out a breath, watches it dissolve slowly. Dean promised they'd go get new gloves – and a new jacket while they're at it – as soon as Dad's back. He left on Tuesday to swing by a friend past the Canadian border, stocking up on ammo or something. Sam didn't pay close attention to the conversation, but it's usually crap like that when he leaves; ammo, supplies, a hunt that'll take too long to take Dean with and leave Sam to his own devices. Dad doesn't have the kind of friends to visit for a chat. 

Today's Friday, the last day of school before the winter break, and something tells Sam that he still won't have gloves when the new year rolls around. He hopes he won't need them, either, that Dad will pack them up as soon as he's back, having caught wind of another critter that has to be hunted. Most of the time Sam's annoyed with their nomadic life style and would give his right arm to stay in one place – and one school – for more than six months, but it's frigging cold here and Timberlake High School hasn't exactly been one of the highlights of his school career so far. 

He doesn't like the cold; it wears him down. 

Their little cabin comes into view, and Sam speeds up his pace, almost runs the last hundred yards. Normally Dean would pick him up, especially in this weather, but there has been a new wave of snow yesterday afternoon and the Impala's out of commission for the time being. He likes the car – more than he'd ever admit out loud when Dean's around – but it's as far as you can get from an all-weather vehicle. 

Dean greets him with an overly cheerful smile, the promise of chili to counteract the cold climate, and a rattling cough. The latter is nothing new; he's been nursing a cold since the second day they got here, and it has yet to get better. Sam's tried to talk him into a doctor's visit, because he may only be fourteen but even he knows that these things get worse when they fester, but of course Dean wouldn't have any of that. He downs Tylenol like they're Smarties and grabs himself an extra blanket for the night when he thinks no one's looking, but that's the extent of things Dean Fucking Winchester is going to do about any kind of affliction that doesn't involve bleeding out on the floor. 

While Dean cooks, Sam sits at the dining table in the main room and watches him. It's a familiar ritual, Dean making dinner and Sam doing his homework in the same space, but he's got two weeks to finish the assignments he got to take care of during the break, and figures there's no need to start on the first day. Dean doesn't pay attention to him, engrossed in his work – he likes cooking, Sam knows, although he'd deny that with his dying breath because it somehow endangers his manliness to find joy in a task that's traditionally left to women – and Sam grabs the opportunity to gauge how shitty he really feels. Dean's pale and obviously tired, eyes half lidded and circled by deep dark rings, but that's no surprise to Sam. They sleep in the same room, and he knows the coughing fits wake Dean up a few times a night, because they're bad enough to rouse Sam, too. But that seems to be it: no sore nose from the sniffles, at least not anymore, and no heated cheeks that would point towards a fever. He seems to be getting better; the only thing that has Sam worried, still, is the cough. 

Which he can't bring up, of course, because Dean's a stubborn ass and would keep insisting that he's fine, the picture of perfect health, and Sam shouldn't lose any sleep over it. So instead, Sam says, “Chili smells great.” 

Dean grins. “Gonna burn the cold right out of your system, Sammy, heat you up from the inside.”

It does; the first few spoonfuls already have him sweating and heaving in air open-mouthed because it's so spicy. It reminds him of last summer, four weeks in New Mexico, and as much as he hated it while they stayed there? Man, right now he wishes himself back into the rundown shack of an apartment they've lived in, broken AC be damned. More proof to his earlier theory that Dad puts them in either the hottest or the coldest places he can come up with to turn even their everyday life into a training lesson, by the way. 

Days like this, Sam firmly believes that it's true. 

 

***

 

When Sam pads into the main room the next morning, Dad's back. He and Dean sit over a map, an assortment of old books and handwritten notes spread out around them, and Sam knows beforehand what's going to happen as soon as they notice his presence. 

“Morning, Sammy. Dad was just telling me about a Werewolf sighting in Nelson, just behind the border,” Dean says, face lit up with excitement. 

Score. Something like that is what Sam expected. He knows this script, heard it often enough, and takes his time to walk over to the kitchen and get himself a bowl, take milk from the fridge and embark on a search for their cereal bowls before he says, “Okay.” 

Dad sighs, surely wondering why he got cursed with such a weirdo for a younger son. “I'll need Dean along for this one, but it's not far. We'll be back by Monday at the latest. You gonna be okay on your own for a coupla days?” 

Sam wants to say that no, he won't be, he's fourteen and too damn young to be left alone although they've been doing that for years and besides, Dean's _sick_ and shouldn't be hunting _anything_. But when he turns to do so he catches Dean's gaze, begging him not to make a fuss about this, and doesn't have the heart to throw a fit. He nods. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” 

Dean smiles at him, briefly so that Dad doesn't catch it, a silent _thank you_ that's immediately followed up by a cough Dean scrambles to stifle, and Sam sort of wants to scream. 

The two of them head out soon after, leaving Sam behind with an empty cabin, five sets of microwaveable meals and warm-up rolls – just in case – and a lonely, boring weekend ahead of him. 

 

***

By Sunday evening, Sam's done with almost half of the assignments he got for the winter break, save for the least favorite courses, has watched so much TV that it's given him a headache and he's seriously considering to mop the cabin just to have something to do. 

He doesn't, of course. Instead, he grabs himself a book out of the pile of new acquisitions Dad brought in yesterday and starts reading. 

Next thing he knows, it's dark out and he wakes curled up in the armchair with the book lying open on his stomach; it says something profound about their life, maybe, that he manages to fall asleep while reading nightmare fodder about old sea creatures. He might've heard a noise outside, but isn't quite sure until it comes again. 

The truck. Dean and Dad are back. 

Sam puts the book away, rubs at his eyes and gets up. When he fell asleep, it was still bright daylight, but now the room's only lit by the glow of the television. He mutes it before he draws the curtain aside to peer outside, and his breath nearly stops when sees Dad heave a motionless Dean out of the back seat and heft him over his shoulder, holding him in place with an arm slung around his thighs. 

Still in t-shirt and track pants, Sam tears open the door. “What happened? Dad! Is he okay?” 

“Lake. He broke through the ice. Stop it with the questions and go inside, Sam,” Dad orders, and Sam's too stunned to resist. 

He backs out of the way until his hip hits the counter of the kitchenette, and clutches at its edge. Good thing it's there, too, because all of a sudden his legs are weak and wobbly, and he's afraid they might give out, leave him falling to the floor. He watches as Dad pushes through the door, sweeps everything – research, books, even the plate and glass Sam hasn't cleared yet after he'd had lunch – off the table in the main room. It all lands on the floor with a clatter, the glass breaks, and Sam's too busy staring at the mess to register Dad calling his name. Dad sounds angry and annoyed; he must have called him a few times already. 

“Uh, yeah?” Sam asks, dumbfounded and shocked. 

Dad lowers Dean onto the table and starts to rip off his clothes. They're not Dean's own, Sam notices, in fact they look like Dad's spares from the trunk. 

“Go into the bathroom and get me some wet towels. Rinse them under hot water, wring them out well, and bring them back here.” When Sam doesn't react immediately, he adds, “Now, fucking goddammit. Go!”

Sam pushes himself from the counter with an effort, tests his legs for a step or two, finds them working and runs the rest of the way to the bathroom. He does as he's told, meticulously wets and wrings five towels. Back in the living room, Dad has Dean stripped and wrapped into a blanket. He takes the towels out of Sam's arms one by one, places them under Dean's neck, around his upper body and above his groin. 

As soon as Dad's used up all the towels, Sam remembers some of the first aid training Dad gave them on hypothermia. He goes back to the bathroom to prepare more towels, because the first batch will have cooled down soon and need to be exchanged in a quick succession in order be at all effective. He does that a few times, until Dad tells him to stop and hands him the last set of towels to put away. 

Dean's conscious by then; not quite all the way, but he groans and fidgets. He's shivering, tries to bat Dad's hands away when he applies some quick pressure to various places along Dean's legs and arms to make sure Dean's got feeling in all his extremities. 

The sun has begun to rise when Dad finally carries Dean over to their room and orders Sam to sleep in his brother's bed, keep warming him up further by sharing body heat with him. Sam doesn't have to be told twice.

He curls around his brother, and falls asleep to the sound of Dean's labored breathing. 

 

***

 

The next morning, Dean's still asleep when Sam wakes up. Sam stays in bed for a moment, listening to Dean's breathing, finds it low and regular but a whole lot more rattled than two days ago. He frowns. 

_Fucking hunt._ He should've insisted, be the little brat that Dad always accuses him of being, and this wouldn't have happened. 

Quietly, so as not to disturb his brother, Sam climbs out of bed and goes into the main room. Dad's up already, of course. He sits at the table that Dean laid on last night. He must have tidied it up earlier, because the books are back on its surface, in neat piles, and there's nothing on the floor; the broken glass and ceramic from the remnants of Sam's dishes from the day before is gone as if nothing had happened. 

It makes Sam so angry he can hardly stand to look at it, all evidence for the previous night gone like it never even happened. 

Dad looks up. “Morning. How is he?” 

“Alive. Still sleeping,” Sam snaps. 

The look Dad shoots him means he caught the accusation in his tone, but he doesn't comment on it. “Good. That's good. Dean's tough, he can take a fair bit.” 

“Sure. Of course he can,” Sam says, and lets himself fall onto a chair opposite his father. “You shouldn't have taken him along.” 

“Oh, and you're the one to make that decision?” Dad leans back and sighs, put-upon, his calm visibly getting thinner. _Good._ Sam wants to fight with him, unload his anger somewhere.

“You didn't even see that he's sick, did you? He has been since we arrived, pretty much. You shouldn't have gone hunting with him, you should've taken him to a doctor, have him checked out.” 

”Dean's eighteen, he can watch out for himself. If he wasn't feeling well, he shoulda said so.” Dad's glaring now. He's not taking the bait yet, not really, but Sam will get him there. 

“As if he'd ever do that,” Sam says and snorts. 

“Mind your tone with me, kid. I'm still your father,” Dad replies, rising temper barely repressed. 

“Yeah. Maybe you should behave like it every once in a while? You know, that'd make for a nice –“ 

“I leave the two of you alone for five minutes, and you're already locking horns. Fantastic.” 

Sam's and Dad's heads whip around almost in unison; it'd probably look comedic, if either of them was in the mood for laughs. Dean's standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but boxers, white-knuckled grip at the doorframe to keep himself from doubling over, still white as a sheet and wobbling on his feet. He opens his mouth to say more, but gets interrupted by a violent cough that all but ripples through his body. 

“Son, you shouldn't be up. Back to bed right now, you hear me?” 

“I'm okay, I just need a cup of coffee and –“, Dean starts, but another coughing fit promptly contradicts him. 

Dad doesn't like to give an order twice, no matter if it's out there on a hunt, or in here, ordering one of his sons to bed rest. He simply raises his eyebrows, nods in the direction of their bedroom. Dean rolls his eyes at him – _Dad, don't be dramatic_ – but he complies and turns to go back to the room, with Sam close behind to make sure he _stays_ there. Sam shots Dad a look over his shoulder, but there are more important things than this stupid fight right now. 

 

***

 

Somehow, they both seem to expect Dean to be okay after another good night's sleep and some rest wrapped up in all the warm blankets they have. Sam knows he didn't anticipate anything else – not really, not when it's _Dean_ – and he can clearly read it in the way their father gets more and more agitated as the day passes that the same goes for him. He's getting nervous and worried, and that, in turn, scares the hell out of Sam. 

The second day passes without Dean even trying to get out of bed. He gets worse instead of better, coughs wetly and so hard that he curls in on himself to ride them out. He spikes a fever that's high enough to make his eyes glassy and unfocused, and in the evening, he starts puking. It's nothing but bile – they hadn’t managed to get more than chamomile tea and a few crackers into Dean all day – and the heaving looks like it hurts. 

When Dean passes out on his way to the bathroom later that night, Dad calls it. He gets Dean into sweatpants and a t-shirt, bundles him up in a blanket and carries him to the car; Dean's too far gone to protest. Sam feels small and helpless as he follows them, a bag with some clothes clutched to his chest, and he climbs into the backseat with Dean.

Dean doesn't even seem to register the change of location; he's so out of it. 

In the hospital, the staff throws Dad reproachful looks while he whispers something about a business trip, coming home to a kid that's been sick and nevertheless thought it might be a good idea to go ice skating with a couple of friends. He tells them that Dean broke though the ice, got even sicker, but didn't call in fear of getting into trouble. They don't believe him, that much is obvious. Old horror stories about Child Protective Services and group homes and mean foster parents bubble up in Sam. But the fact that Dad's here at all might save them from that, Sam hopes, will not make them suspect a neglectful parent but merely a bad one. 

A nurse with a name tag that says “Linda” – a heart instead of a dot on the i – brings Sam hot cocoa in a Styrofoam cup as they wait for Dean to be admitted and assessed and for the doctor to talk to them. Dad gives him long looks, pretends he isn't whenever Sam catches him. 

They sit in silence as they wait, and Sam's half-asleep in his chair by the time the doctor appears and announces himself by noisily clearing his throat. “Mr. Winchester? You can go see your son now. I'll show you the room, and we can talk along the way?” 

The doctor says Dean's got a severe, prolonged case of pneumonia, made worse and a lot more acute by the dive into the cold lake, and Sam stops listening halfway through his explanations. There are some mentions of antibiotics and painkillers, fluids, and x-rays that are to be made of Dean's lungs to determine how bad it is, but all that fades into indistinct blabber as soon as Sam catches sight of his brother. 

Dean lies in a hospital bed, still not exactly conscious, surrounded by beeping machinery, with a nasal tube and an IV needle in his right hand. He's pale and sweaty and so painfully _young_ and vulnerable that it makes something in Sam's chest constrict so much he almost can't draw any air himself. 

Next to him, Dad sucks in a breath, but when Sam looks up to him, he's already got himself back under wraps and stares at Dean, the look on his face solemn but closed-up. 

For the next twenty-four hours, the two of them take turns at Dean's bedside. At least one of them is always awake, most of the time they both are. Sam goes for coffee runs what feels like every half an hour, neither of them even mentioning that he's usually not allowed to drink it. They don't talk, and Dean doesn't come to. The nurses keep giving them sympathetic glances when they report back about his vitals and how his fever doesn't break and hey, still, nothing to worry about, he's in good hands and will wake up soon and feel better. 

Some time before dawn on Dean's second day in the hospital, the nurse on duty gets agitated and hectic after checking his vitals. She calls for the doctor and herds Sam and Dad out of the room. All they can do for endless minutes is watch as more people rush into the room, there's some shouting and machinery beeping, and eventually another doctor – not the one they talked to earlier – appears. He takes Dad aside, and Sam can only hear a few scraps of that conversation, about shadows on Dean's lungs and a possible complication. 

Dean is whisked away, brought back half an hour later, and when the doctor returns shortly after that, his expression is grim. This time, he doesn't seem to care whether or not Sam listens when he talks to Dad. 

“I'm afraid I have bad news”, he says as he hands a chart to the nurse that informed him in the first place; she nods and disappears into Dean's room. “We have yet to determine the exact cause, but either the preexisting pneumonia or foreign matter from when he fell into the lake have caused an inflammation in his lungs. He's going to go into ICU, onto a ventilator, and I'm not going to downplay this: if we can't get to the bottom of it soon, there's a risk of multi-organ-failure.” 

“What does that mean?” Sam asks, looks from his father to the doctor and back. Dad scrubs a hand down his face, a gesture that Dean has adopted roundabout age sixteen and that Sam has seen him making so often that it's now a Dean-thing and not a Dad-thing anymore, and seeing it on Dad again is weird. 

And no, he doesn't know where that thought came from. Nerves, maybe. Sam's eyes flicker to the door to Dean's room, where his brother's being prepared for ICU, and how did that happen? Just a few days, and Sam remembers being worried about gloves and a bit of a cough, and now Dean might _die_. Because Sam's pretty sure that's what this means. Multi-organ-failure doesn't sound like something one gets up after. 

The doctor confirms Sam's fears. “It means he could die. He's young, in good health otherwise, and we are doing whatever we can, we'll up his medication and hope that the ventilator will reduce the strain on his lungs enough to help him recover, but it is a possibility you should prepare yourself for.” 

Dad doesn't say anything else. He stares at the doctor, at Dean, and back again, and then he marches down the hallway, pushes the door to the stairs open and disappears from Sam's sight.  
Sam doesn't follow him. 

 

***

 

When Dean had first been admitted an eternity ago, Sam had thought seeing him in a plain hospital bed was scary, but the sight of him in the ICU beats that tenfold. There's so much more machinery, tubes and monitors everywhere. At some point, he comes awake, gags and panics, eyes wide and breath coming in quick, insufficient gulps, and he's out again before the nurse comes running into the room. 

That's when Sam can’t stand it anymore; the room, the hospital, the beeping machines, the fucking smell in there. Dad, who slunk back inside about two hours after he made a run for it – reeking faintly of cigarette smoke and booze, but, as far as Sam could tell, mostly sober – looks up to him for a moment, but he just nods when he meets Sam's eyes. 

The hospital has a small garden and a playground. It's all covered in snow now, a thick layer of it; seems like it's snowed again since Sam's last been outside. The sky's clear now, though, sun high up in the sky and not a cloud to be seen. Sam distantly wonders what time it is, but he figures it doesn't much matter. He wipes the snow off the end of a slide and sits down on it. His eyes fall halfway shut against his will, exhaustion washing over him like a tide. He blinks, bites his lip hard to force his body into action to get rid of the weariness, and then starts when he hears a voice next to him. 

“You're worried about him, hm? Your brother.” Linda, the nurse that brought him hot cocoa the first day, is standing next to the slide. She isn’t wearing anything else than her scrubs, but doesn't seem to be cold. Sam, on the other hand, remembers all of a sudden that he doesn't have a jacket on and shivers involuntarily. 

Linda smiles. “Had to get out of there, yeah? Don't worry about it; that happens. These rooms, the whole building actually, can get suffocating.” She holds a hand out to Sam. “Join me for a walk? If nothing else, it will at least warm you up.” 

Sam doesn't take her hand, but he does get up, and Linda leads the way onto a path that winds up to the back of the building. She stops by a worn plastic bench that stands by the wall of the hospital not far from the shutters of an air-conditioning vent and pats the space next to her. Sam sits down, and inhales in startled surprise. The engine seems to be part of the ventilation system or the AC, and it blows warm air at their backs. 

“Staff's secret place in this weather. Don't tell anyone I showed you,” Linda says and winks. 

A few minutes pass, and neither of them says a word. Sam sits on the bench, eyes closed, and focuses on the warmth from the engine. He imagines Dean and up and about, in the cabin, or the car. Both of them last summer in New Mexico, dousing each other with a hose they misused while the gardener of the apartment complex they lived in was on his lunch break. Dean sitting at the edge of another pool somewhere in Newark, his legs swinging and beating a rhythm Sam doesn't know at the dirty white tile. 

He bites his tongue, shakes his head to get rid of the images. 

Linda leans in closer, enough that she can whisper into his ear. “He's gonna die, you know? Soon. Won't see another sunrise, actually.” 

Sam slides away, turns to stare at her. “What'd you say?” 

“Oh, I said that your brother's going to die in less than twelve hours,” she replies, face emotionless and oddly, unnaturally blank. “But you can stop it, Sam. You can save him.” 

“I... What? _How?_ ”

“It's not gonna cost you much, Sam. All we want from you is a promise, the guarantee that you'll do us a favor at some point in the future. A wee one, really. We help you now, and you'll help us later, that's all,” Linda says. She scoots closer again, runs her fingertips down Sam's jaw. 

Sam recoils from the touch. “Who's _we_?” 

Instead of an answer, Linda throws her head back and laughs. For a second, Sam's sure her eyes flash red. 

He runs, and doesn't stop until he's back in the hospital, in the ICU, in Dean's room. Dad's asleep on a chair in the corner of the room, and Sam sinks into another one next to Dean's bed, grabs his brother’s hand and squeezes it as hard as he can. 

Dean doesn't stir. He doesn't even make a sound. 

 

***

 

It's getting dark outside when Sam wakes from a high-pitched alarm that reverberates in his head. He starts, almost falls out of his chair before he's fully aware of his surroundings. 

The alarm is coming from one of Dean's machines. 

The next nurse or doctor or whatever-she-is shakes Sam's shoulder, pulls at him to make him get up so she can get at the machinery. “You gotta leave the room, kid. We need the space to work, here, you have to wait outside.” 

Reluctantly, Sam gets up and backs away, joined by Dad. He looks as panicked as Sam feels, eyes darting around the room and jittery. Upon another command from a doctor to leave the room, he wraps a hand around Sam's shoulder to steer him out into the hallway, and Sam follows willingly. 

Until he sees Linda disappear into one of the rooms, that is. He breaks free, mumbles something about coffee at Dad, and Dad nods absently, eyes still on Dean and the medical staff swarming around him. 

Sam follows her, finds her sitting on a gurney and grinning at him. “See? Told you. Won't get to see another sunrise. This is when your big brother bites the dust, Sammy-boy. It's on you to make sure he lives to see is nineteenth birthday, and many after that.” 

“What do I have to do? To save him?” The words are out before Sam means for them to happen, but really, he doesn't have a choice. It's _Dean_. 

“Like I said: we save Dean now, set everything up so that it’s like he never got sick in the first place, and the three of you will go on as if nothing ever happened. You won't remember this, you won't remember the hospital, you won't remember me. At least not until the time comes. All you have to do in return is grant us a freebie. In roundabout ten years, we'll come knocking. Someone like me is gonna ask you to do something for us, and if you're a good boy and do as we say, no one's gonna get hurt. Not then, and not you or Dean, anyway. If you refuse, this deal will be null and void and Dean will pretty much drop dead on the spot.” She picks at something on her shirt, obviously bored with this conversation, rubs her hand on the gurney's mattress before she turns her attention back to Sam. “Your call. What's it gonna be?” 

Sam's not stupid. He knows this is wrong. He knows it's magic or something else that comes with horrible consequences, but he doesn't care. Not when Dean's dying down the hallway. “Yes. Okay. Save him.” 

Linda leans forward, presses her lips to Sam's, and the world around him fades to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**New Harmony (Indiana), May 2008**

Sam buries Dean on a Sunday, two days after his death. Bobby hangs around for the first day, only leaves them alone because Sam throws a bottle at his head – hard and well-aimed – and he probably starts to fear for his life.

After, Sam sits in the dark and stares at Dean's body, tries to work up the strength to put him six feet under, at least. Bobby insisted they burn Dean, give him a hunter’s funeral. But Sam's not ready to admit defeat like that. This isn't the end. It's temporary. He'll find a way. 

Finally on his own, Sam meticulously cleans Dean's body, stitches his chest and thighs back together as well as he can, dresses him in fresh clothes, and then he just sits there. For endless hours he sits by what's left of his brother, talks to him. At some point, Sam doesn't so much run out of things to talk about as out of the air in his lungs to do it, breath hitching with sobs. That's when he decides that it's time to go and find a place for the burial; he's got work to do, and crying over a lifeless, decomposing body isn't going to help him accomplish anything. His resolve wavers when he's faced with the task of getting his brother into the car; Dean's cold and stiff, slips through his grip the first time he tries to maneuver him onto the backseat. He scrambles to get a better hold before they both land in the mud, but Dean's not a lightweight and wasn’t easy to manhandle even when he were alive. Sam has to resist the urge to break down messily next to the car, dead brother in the dirt beside him.

But he manages, covers Dean with a blanket afterwards to shield him from view and takes off in search for a place that will scream at him, _hey, this is where you want to bury your brother._

 

***

 

He waits two weeks until he first tries to go to a crossroads. The first demon shoots him down before Sam can open his mouth to talk. The second and third don't appear at all. The fourth shows just to laugh at him, beats a hasty retreat when Sam pulls out the knife and Sam ends up driving the host – a middle-aged soccer-mom that cries the whole way and swears him her everlasting gratitude for finding her – home instead. 

But Sam doesn’t – can't – stop trying. Another dark night, another crossroad, another box buried in the vain hope that maybe this time he'll find a demon that's willing to ignore the company line. He's punch-drunk, can't get one foot in front of the other without stumbling, can't follow through any tangible, rational thought no matter how many books he reads. He's _tried_ other ways. He expects no-show number three, but this is all he has left now; he can't help himself. 

He's still busy shouting his head off at no one in particular when the demon appears underneath the lamppost next to a nearby bus stop. It's a guy this time, engulfed in the light from the lamp, wearing a big, cocky grin while he sprouts bullshit Sam's not particularly interested in; the thing's talking to hear it's own voice. Borrowed voice. Whatever. They encircle each other, back and forth, until they end up by a wooden table next to the bus stop and Sam's had it. He pushes Ruby's knife through the thing's hand. “I don't want ten years, I don't want one year, I don't want candy. I wanna trade places with Dean.” 

The demon looks down at its hand, the still sizzling wound, apparently unbothered. "Nice try, but has no one ever told you that you can't barter away the goods twice? Who'd buy something they already laid claim to?" 

Sam has no idea what he's talking about, and the alcohol in his system makes it even harder to think; he rubs at his temple with his free hand in a futile attempt to clear his thoughts. "What do you mean?"

The demon inclines its borrowed head. “Ah, I forgot. You're not supposed to remember.” It lays a finger to its lips, makes a _shh_ -noise. “Sorry. Not my story to tell. You'll find out in time, I'm sure. Meanwhile, Dean's in Hell, right where we want him. We've got _everything_ exactly the way we want it.” 

This time, Sam doesn't care for the host. He drives the knife straight through the demon's throat and leaves the body where it falls. 

 

***

 

Sam doesn't have much opportunity to think about what the demon said; when he returns to his motel room that night, everything changes. Ruby's back – wearing another petite blonde and two other demons in tow – and for a second Sam really believes she came to kill him. Part of him wishes she'd do it. 

She doesn't, and soon she sits in the passenger seat of Dean's car and babbles about how horrible Hell can be; Sam wants to stab her on the spot for that alone. He doesn't care if she fought her way out, what she's endured or risked to get to him, and she can't tell him what he wants to hear either. 

There's no way to get Dean back. 

In that moment, after months of telling Dean how she's important and on their side and how she can help them, he wants nothing more than to stop the car and drive the knife that she gave him through her throat. But then she says it. _I can help you kill Lilith._ The thought rekindles a flame deep inside of him he didn't know existed. He'd thought it pointless, no way of getting a hold of her, and didn't see the point since Dean's dead and gone either way. But now that Ruby dangles the possibility in front of him, he wants it. He wants to make Lilith suffer, see her writhe and wail as he kills her, make sure the last thing she feels is regret for ever taking Dean's life. 

He throws Ruby out of the car and spends the night alternately throwing up what little food he’d managed to slug down all day and dreaming of cold winters, hot rage, and a brother that futilely screams his name, and when Ruby appears at the door of his temporary home the next morning to press the point again, he's already made his decision. 

“Skip the speech. I'm ready. Let's go,” he says, and in his whole life he's never been more serious. 

 

***

 

 _Teaching him everything she knows_ isn't quite what he pictured. At first, he has a hard time wrapping his head around what she means. “Exorcisms. With what? The power of thought? How am I supposed to do that? And what is it good for? I don't want to send Lilith back to the pit, I want her to –“ 

“Suffer and die a slow, excruciating death,” Ruby cuts in, sounding like a teacher that has to explain the same equation three times in a row. “I know. You mentioned that. But trust me, this is the way to get there.” 

Trusting her didn't get him anywhere so far, and so he huffs, turns his back on her, and hears her give a frustrated sigh. But if he lets himself think about it – really think, past how weird and impossible it sounds – he understands that it's not that big a stretch. Ava managed to control demons with her mind back in Cold Oak, and if she taught herself that, then why not believe that Ruby can show him how to pull them out of their host and send them downstairs? 

Ruby comes closer, lays a hand onto his back. He shivers under the touch – whether it's out of surprise or repulsion or because it's been forever since anyone did that he's not sure – but he doesn't step away, and she rubs it down and back up in a slow, soothing motion. “This is the way,” she repeats. “I'll get you there. In the end, you'll stand over Lilith and have her writhe and scream while she dies. I promise.” 

He believes her because he so desperately wants to, shoves down doubt and second thoughts and _what would Dean say_. “Okay. I'm all ears.” 

She smiles, a little too victorious for his taste. It makes his skin crawl, has him wondering what's in this for her that makes her so giddy, but he decides to ignore that thought as well. 

“Patience, remember? First we gotta get the alcohol out of your system, get you sharp and focused, and then we'll get started.” 

 

***

 

His first tries are a horrible disappointment. The demons Ruby carts in barely flinch when Sam starts in on them, either laugh at him or start to spit venom about what Dean must be going through right now, if they should pass on a message when they run into him in the pit and have a go at his soul. 

It's one of those taunts that pushes Sam far enough to pull a puff of smoke halfway past the host's lips. He's so surprised that he loses his hold immediately, leaving the demon to gag and then laugh hysterically while Ruby cheers beside him. His head hurts, his nose starts to bleed, and not for the first time he feels like he's trapped in a weird dream. 

Oddly enough, that feeling has gotten more intense since he kinda-sorta sobered up. 

Ruby looks over at him, her expression unreadable; if he didn't know better, he'd swear she looks _proud_. She smiles at him, steps forward to slit the demon's throat, and Sam watches as its life sizzles out.

From there, it gets easier. He learns that anger's a better fuel than desperation. He starts to imagine ripping the demons out of their host's throats, literally, and in mental images so brutal that he surprises himself sometimes. But it works, and so he goes with it, doesn't stop to think. And, honestly? Sam's brother is in Hell. His current companion is a demon. It doesn't take much to connect the dots here. 

And then he goes and tops it all off by _sleeping_ with said demon. To his surprise, the sex doesn't feel any weirder than everything else. He exists in limbo, has ever since Dean died; nothing matters much, nothing seems real. It doesn't change his relationship with Ruby either; that doesn't happen until Lilith sets a trap with a scared little girl as bait, Sam marches out on Ruby to commit suicide by demon and instead manages to perform his first exorcism by thought. 

It's different to his attempts with captured demons, and not just because this isn't controlled. That's part of it, surely; if he doesn't get it right this time, Ruby's gone and he's probably next. No better motivation than the survival instinct that he didn't think he still had. 

No, what makes this so different is the surge of unfiltered, raw power, flowing all through him. He's alive with it, drunk on it, even though he never felt more clearly that it's unnatural and dark. _Demonic._ The manifestation of so many of the things that he and Dean and their dad spent their lives fighting. 

The demon disappears into a hole into the ground, practically melts trough the floor, and Sam doesn't feel anything. He stares at Ruby, who looks at him with both awe and surprise, and wipes the blood from underneath his nose. 

He didn't notice it started bleeding. 

 

***

 

They fall into... something, after that. Not trust; never that. He wouldn't. But, he goes along with her more easily. He stops fighting, doubting, questioning her motives at every turn and accepts that maybe, in some wrenched way he has yet to understand, she does have his best interest at heart. 

He doesn't freak out and run when she first suggests the blood. 

Ruby sits opposite of him on the small, rickety plastic table that seems to be a vital part of motel furnishing all across the country, close enough that their arms almost touch. Her hand hovers over his – as if she expects to have to have to hold him back, keep him from bolting – and her voice is calm and placating, careful, when she explains. “The part of you that enables you to do this, the source of your powers, it's bound to Azazel's hold on you. When he came to your house the night your mother died, he –“ 

“Bled into my mouth. I know.” 

She shrugs in surprise. “You do? Okay. So you'll understand why my blood will increase your power. It will fuel the fire that he lit.” 

“And why would I want to do that? It's working fine as it is, doesn't it?” Sam leans back in his chair, away from her; it's more instinct than a deliberate action. 

Ruby mirrors the motion, gives him space. “Because that's the how you will become stronger. And if you become strong enough, you'll be able to kill demons, not just send them back to the pit.”

He vaguely notices how she talks about her own kind in a way that doesn't include herself, but then he realizes what she just said, what it _means_. “All demons? What about Lilith?”

And Ruby smiles, bright and relieved. “Yes, Lilith too.” 

She stands, walks over to his duffel and returns with a small, simple knife. It's one of Dean's, the one he uses – _used_ – to carve symbols or make stakes out of pieces of wood. Arm outstretched in front of Sam, she makes a short, shallow cut on the inside of her forearm and looks up at him expectantly. 

Sam doesn't look up, transfixed by droplets of thick red that trickle out of the wound, down her pale skin. “Should I just, uhm.” He meant to ask _should I suck on it_ , but he can't make himself say that out loud. 

“Yeah. Exactly.” Ruby holds her arm out, bent at the elbow and stretched out towards him. Tiny splotches of blood fall onto the worn surface of the table. She stares at him with wide, expectant eyes, and he leans down, brings his lips to the cut. 

The taste of blood isn't new to him, of course, just about every kid experimentally licks up fresh blood from a paper cut or the like, and he's a hunter, has had blood run down his face and past his lips more than once in his life, but this is different. It does have the typical metallic tang to it, but that is mixed with something heavier, bitter and nauseating. He draws back, coughs, almost gags. 

Ruby reaches out to touch his face, wipe a smear of red off his lips. She says, “It's okay.” 

 

***

 

The blood makes him stronger, it makes him more aware of himself, his body, every thrum of his own heart. He's centered, calm. Capable. He listens to Ruby when she tells him not to overexert himself, get comfortable with the exorcisms before he tries his hand at a kill, and so he practices. A lot. 

After a long while of existing on the fringes, weeks during which he hides himself and her away in abandoned houses, rented apartments and motels so shitty that even Dean wouldn't set foot in them, he's finally ready to step out into world again. He hunts, sometimes, if he stumbles across a case on the way. She never joins him, hangs back, knows better than to ask, and though it's odd and wrong and not the same if he does it alone, the familiarity of it does soothe the ache. 

It makes him miss Dean less, and at the same time more. 

Sam offs five demons in one go in a small town not far from Tulsa, and he's still riding a high when they get back to their room. They fuck – a quick, rough thing more similar to a fight than to making love – and afterwards, as they lie on their backs side by side and come down, Sam remembers the last time he tried to sell his soul before Ruby came back. 

“Ruby?” 

She turns to him, grins lewdly. “Round two already?” 

“No. You remember when you first came back, caught up with me again?” 

Ruby nods, curious and mildly concerned. “Of course I do. What about it?” 

“That night, I was just returning from a crossroads. Tried to get Dean back.” 

“Sam –“, she interrupts, but he holds a hand up and she falls quiet. 

“The demon that appeared, he made dropped some weird hints. About my soul. How there's already a claim on it.” 

For a beat or two, she regards him silently. “And?”

“Do you know anything about it?” 

Her eyebrows knit together, and he half-expects her to say yes. But she shakes her head. “No. Demons lie, Sam, you know that. He was toying with you.” 

Sam doesn't reply, turns away from her and ignores it when she curls up with him.

Yeah. He knows.

 

***

 

The brother Sam gets back isn't the same one he’d watched get torn to shreds. Dean's subdued, guarded. He tries too hard and doesn't quite get it right. Dean Winchester light, interrupted by short occurrences of Dean Winchester played up to the hilt. 

Hell, Sam figures, would do that to a person. 

Dean manages to stay up for the first hundred miles on their drive to Bobby's psychic, but eventually exhaustion takes the better of him. He stops by the side of the road and doesn't say a thing when he gets out of the car to round it, but he doesn't have to. Sam knows. He slides over to the driver's side while Dean curls up in the passenger seat. 

It takes a while until he falls asleep, though. For the first half an hour after Sam takes the wheel, Dean’s open, glassy eyes meet Sam's whenever he looks over. Sam's got a thousand questions to ask, even more things he wants to say, but decides that now's not the time, and they drive in silence until Dean drifts off. His sleep is fitful, restless; he keeps rolling over in the seat, groaning, and every so often his breathing speeds up as if he's scared of something. 

And yeah, Sam should've known. Dean doesn't remember a thing about Hell, sure, his ass. 

After no more than two hours, Dean starts awake on a choked cry, and Sam can't keep his mouth shut. “Bad dream?” 

“I, uh.” Dean blinks at him, his drowsy mind slow to come up with a deflection. “The hellhounds, ya know? Not a fun way to die, I can tell you that.” 

“I know, I've seen it,” Sam answers, his tone maybe a bit too snappy. Dean glowers at him, expression flickering from annoyance to guilt and back, and Sam's not sure if it's about dying and Sam having to see it, or if it's about lying. 

He finds he doesn't care. If nothing else, it makes him feel less guilty about lying himself. That, at least, is the same as before Dean died, a trend that emerged during the tail end of his last year and that they're picking up again now. Sometimes Sam wonders if the results will be as disastrous this time around, but he does his best to push that thought down whenever it surfaces. Either way, it's easier to run with it. If Dean wants bullshit, then that's what he gets. 

“Whatever. Wanna take over the wheel again, or try to get some more shut eye?” 

Dean's eyes narrow in thought. “I don't regret it.” 

Sam's at a loss. “What?” 

“Hell. The deal. I don't regret it. Never did. In case you were wondering, it was worth it.” 

“Okay,” says Sam, and Dean rolls over to face the window, like he's said his piece and lost interest in the conversation. He doesn't fall back asleep and Sam pretends not to notice that he's faking it. 

 

***

 

The night after they battle angels and demons and Dean tells him about Hell, about the forty years and the torture and how he took up the knife, Sam cries himself to sleep. 

Dean's out getting shitfaced – he declared he needed to get out of this room and be somewhere that Sam _isn't_. He didn't mention a bar, but Sam has no doubt that's where his brother is. He cries almost as hard as he did when he cleaned Dean up for his burial; convulsing sobs that make his whole body shake and his breath hitch, loud and without any kind of restraint. 

Forty years. Alastair. Dean taking up the knife. Sam tries to picture it, his big brother as a torturer, but he can't connect the two things. 

He hears Ruby's voice in his head, how he's gotten flabby and weak. He remembers the moment in the church when he’d tried to exorcise Alastair and failed. He wonders what it must have been like for Dean to run into the thing that tormented him for decades, out of the blue and here, topside, where he's supposed to be safe. Anger rises inside of him like bile, and he almost reaches out for his phone right then and there, to call Ruby, get that hit she suggested him, and go after the thing to erase it from existence once and for all. 

Dean stumbles back in before he can give that one any more thought. There's a clatter when he presumably stumbles over a chair, followed by a muttered curse, and Sam gets out of bed to offer assistance. 

“Fuck off,” Dean growls, swats Sam's hand away. He scowls when he takes in Sam's red eyes and wet cheeks, shoves at him for good measure. 

Sam steps back, and for a moment Dean just stands there, swaying on his feet. He blinks as if he's got no clue where he is or why, what he's supposed to do now. Then he shakes his head, winces, and starts for the bathroom. 

Sam follows, in respectful distance but poised to reach out and steady him if needed, until Dean throws the door into his face and locks it behind himself. He listens to the noises Dean makes as he vomits and the sound of the toilet being flushed afterwards. The faucet gets turned on and off, and then there's silence. Dean doesn't come out. Sam manages to wait him out for about three minutes before he shoulders the door open without preamble. It's a cheap, old thing, and the lock gives in after the second slam. 

Dean sits in the middle of the tiny bathroom, cross-legged, hands in his lap, head bowed and eyes closed. He seems to be conscious, and as Sam's heartbeat slows down he realizes that Dean's humming something. 

“Hey,” Sam says, soft and low, but he doesn't get a reaction. He argues with himself if it'd be a good idea to touch Dean right now, but decides against it. Says his brother’s name instead, louder, more urgently, and crouches down next to him. 

Slowly, Dean looks up. He squints at Sam. “What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here. That's the whole point.” His voice is thin and scratchy from the puking he's done, he sounds scared and so, so confused.

“What are you talking about?” Sam sputters, dumbfounded, more statement than question, but then he gets it. “No, hey. Hey, Dean. No. No, I'm not – You got out, remember? The angels? We're not in Hell, we're topside, and you… You're okay. You're safe. They can't hurt you anymore.” 

Dean stares blankly at him for a long moment, and Sam can pinpoint the exact moment Dean understands. His face flickers with relief, then embarrassment, and he scrambles to his feet just to fall to his knees in front of the toilet and throw up again. Sam helps him up when he's done, meeting no resistance this time, and steers him out of the bathroom and back to the main room. Dean doesn't protest when Sam coaxes him into bed, and he's out like a light within minutes. 

 

***

 

They don't talk about it, of course. None of it, not what Dean told him, or what happened that night, or the fact that Dean gives up what was left of his facade and falls to pieces right before Sam's eyes. Dean rushes them from one gig to the next, anything to not lose momentum and look back, and Sam goes along with it. 

When Ruby appears in the doorframe of their motel room in the middle of a case that involves fake magicians and real magic and three old friends to chew him out, Sam has every intention to keep telling her to fuck off. He's done with the demon blood. They'll find another way, him and Dean, together. 

But then... Maybe they won't. Maybe they'll die trying, way before their time, like Dean seems so sure they will. Maybe Dean won't come back from whatever the angels are planning for him and Sam's going to end up like that magician, sad and miserable and alone, wondering why he didn't take the chance to save his brother when he still had time. Dean looks surprised and somewhat suspicious when Sam announces he'll “take a walk”, but he doesn't say anything about it. 

Ruby answers on the second ring, like she's been waiting for it, smug bitch that she is. “Sam.” 

“I'm guessing you're still in town?” 

To her credit, she doesn't rub it in, although he hears the smile in her voice. “I am.”

“Good. There's a bar across from the motel we're booked into. Meet me there, out back.” 

She must’ve stuck close because it takes her less than five minutes to arrive. He opens the passenger door, leans in, and meets her expectant stare. “Okay. I'm in,” he announces and gets in the car.

“What changed your mind?” 

Sam hesitates, not sure he can put it in words in a way she'd understand, settles for, “I don't want to be doing this when I'm an old man.”

Ruby shrugs; she clearly doesn't get where he's coming from, but that's okay. She doesn't have to; it doesn’t make any difference. The only person he'd want to understand it won't ever listen to him, not about this, is listening to what a disheveled angel's whispering into his ear instead. So Sam's just going to have to do what must be done. On his own. 

They drive to another motel, out of town, by the highway, and Ruby checks them in while Sam waits in the car. She waves a hand in the direction of their newly-acquired room when she comes out of the office, and Sam pulls out the key, gets out and follows after her like in a bad spy movie. 

The expression on her face when he closes the door behind her makes him retract his earlier thought; she may not remark on it, but she _does_ revel in the fact that he's here for another hit and makes no effort to hide it. Her grin is big, triumphant, a little challenging, and she nods over to the bed once the door has clicked shut. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

Sam shakes his head. “No. Told Dean I'm just taking a walk, let's keep this quick.” 

He stares at her arm, hoping he won't have to say the words, and Ruby doesn't disappoint. 

“Whatever works for you,” she says and pulls a knife out of her boot. She nicks her arm unceremoniously, straight-faced and quick. 

Sam swears he can smell the tang of her blood in the air instantly. It doesn't reek of sulfur or the like, but it's different, heavier. 

When the taste hits his tongue, it's like an electric current running through his body. It didn't feel that way the first time, but, now, it's like something reconnects. Like he's been yearning for it, and didn't even realize. He drinks in more than usual – more than he'd have to – and feels his lips curl up into a grin when he's done. “Thanks,” he says. 

Ruby smiles, smug and satisfied. “I'm glad you came to your senses.”

She drives him back, drops him off at their rendezvous. 

In the motel room, Dean's still awake. He's sitting on his bed, still fully clothed, with Sam's laptop open in front of him. “Look who made it back. Thought I might have to scour the streets for you,” he says, without looking up from the screen.

“Had some things to think about. I lost track of time.” 

At that, Dean does look up, eyes narrowed. “It was a good walk, then, yeah?” 

Sam doesn't comment; he holds Dean's gaze for a heartbeat or two, then turns and sits down on his own bed to pull off his boots and start undressing. When he's done and slips into bed, Dean's still busy with the computer; Sam drifts off to the faint glow of it from the other side of the room. 

 

***

 

It’s his third visit to Ruby since the magician case, and he feels _awesome_. Strong, smart and capable, just like last summer, only this time it's not something he stumbles into blinded by grief. He wants this. _He needs this._ And he refuses to regret it. Dean's too self-righteous to even consider a viewpoint different to his own, the angelic dicks think he's an abomination already, so it's not like he's got any credit left to loose. 

Ruby stayed true to her word and didn't let the trail to Lilith go cold. Tonight they're looking for a female demon that's the right hand of someone who... Honestly, Sam lost track. Demon politics are Ruby's area of expertise, not his. Who they are makes no difference when he's got them in the hot seat, trying for the right measure of exorcism to ease them into talking. 

It's a bust, though. She's long gone by the time they track her down. But before they part, Ruby digs a flask out of her jacket pocket, holds it out to Sam. 

He takes it, weighs it in his hand and quirks an eyebrow at her. “What's that, a consolation drink?”

“Open it. You'll see.” 

Sam does, sniffs at it – and yeah, not that kind of drink. It's blood. “I'm guessing this is yours?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “For emergencies. I know it's gross, but hey. Better to keep you stocked up, don't you agree?” 

_Gross_ is putting it lightly, but she's right, and he's too far in to get squeamish now; he pockets the flask, thanks her, and walks back to the motel he's staying in with Dean. His brother is asleep, so Sam boots up the laptop to look for a case; Ruby's going to do the groundwork, she'll let him know when she caught up. For now, it's time for his day job. 

That's how he and Dean end up in Bedford, Iowa, hunting a siren and almost butchering each other on its command. And a week after that, Dean gets sick. 

Of course, Dean doesn't tell him. Sam notices the glassy eyes, the disorientation. The way Dean leans against the car with his eyes closed, collecting his bearings, before he has to get back into the driver’s seat after a gas station pit stop. Fever, Sam's pretty sure. 

“You okay?” 

Dean blinks his eyes open, and the glare he shoots Sam over the hood obviously takes some concentration to muster. Nevertheless, he sticks to the script. “'Course I am.” 

Sam's the one who insists they crash early that night, feigns a headache, and gets called a “fucking princess” for his trouble. Within half an hour after they checked in, Dean's out like a light.

He's still asleep when Sam gets up the next morning, and that's when Sam starts to worry. A hand to Dean's forehead tells him that, yep, he's feverish. Burning up, in fact. He checks their stash of meds for Tylenol, finds the bottle almost empty and heads out to stock up. 

Dean's awake and packing by the time he gets back. He looks even worse: pale as a corpse, a fine glint of sweat on his forehead and temple as he leans over the bed and stuffs socks and toiletries into his duffle.

Sam has to take a deep breath to keep his voice even. “What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like? It's almost noon, if we don't want Edward Becker to pay for another day we gotta get a move on.” 

“Dammit, Dean, cut that crap and get back into bed.”

Dean stops dead, inclines his head a little, chin tilted forward in defiance and eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?” 

“You're in no condition to drive.” 

Dean snorts and returns his attention to the task of cramming underwear into his bag. “Says who? You?”

“Exactly, yeah,” Sam replies. “Says me. I felt your temperature earlier–“ 

“Groping me in my sleep?” Dean interrupts. “What are you, my damn nanny?” 

Sam's had it. He strides up to Dean, reaches out to haul him around by his shoulder… and freezes, immediately releasing his brother when Dean hisses at the slight contact, face contorting in pain. “Dean, hey. What's wrong?” 

Dean curls over, hunching protectively on himself, another pained groan coming out of his throat, and Sam connects the dots. The fever. The shoulder. The ax Bobby hit Dean with to get the blood he needed to kill the siren. “Show me your shoulder.” 

To Sam's astonishment, Dean does. He slowly peels himself half out of his overshirt and draws his t-shirt down enough so Sam can have a look at the wound. It's red and oozing pus, clearly inflamed, and it needed stitches a week ago.

“Why didn't you ask me to help you with that?” 

Dean pulls his clothes back up and heaves the duffle off the bed with his unaffected arm while keeping the other one guarded against his torso; it lands on the ground with an audible thud. “I don't need your fucking help.” The _after all the shit you told me_ isn't said, but heavily implied. 

“No, you'd rather risk blood poisoning,” Sam says quietly. 

“I got it, Sam, okay?” Dean spits out, lowers himself onto the bed carefully and switches the TV on. 

He obviously doesn't, but at least he's not trying to hit the road anymore, so Sam decides he’ll content himself with that for the moment. They watch TV in silence for the half an hour it takes Dean to go back under. 

The next time Dean wakes, he's delirious. He shoots upright, babbling something Sam can't even make out. His eyes are wide and blank when Sam tries to push him back onto the bed, uncomprehending, but he doesn't resist. Sam peels his brother out of his shirt and t-shirt and manhandles him onto his stomach so he can get at the wound. He cleans and patches it up but leaves the stitches for later, when it's less inflamed. He makes Dean swallow down some pills before he lets him doze off again and repeats the whole procedure the next time Dean comes around a few hours later. 

Sam has a nightmare that night, about Dean. Dean is no older than twenty, probably even younger, and lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Machines beep, medical staff runs in and out of the room, and Sam doesn't know what's going on, can't remember that exact scene, but he knows he's scared. He knows Dean's _dying_. 

He jerks himself awake, his heart beating in his throat. A quick glance to the side tells him Dean's still out of it – twenty-nine year old Dean, just feverish, not dying, for fuck’s sake – and Sam gets up, goes to the bathroom, splashes cold water into his face. 

It takes him a long time to fall back asleep. 

In the morning, Dean's over the worst. He’s clear and tracking. He agrees to let Sam have another look at the shoulder and put in a couple of stitches, and another day later, they're back on the road. 

 

***

 

The dream wasn't a one-off. Two nights later, Sam wakes from a nightmare about rushing a teenaged Dean to the hospital, the very same as in the first dream. Dad's there this time, carries Dean from the car to the entrance. Dean's barely conscious, and the image of his limp arm swinging slightly with every step Dad makes is still burned to the back of Sam's eyelids when he wakes up. He's breathless when wakes up, his head ringing and throbbing with every beat of his heart, worry and confusion and fear still as real and immediate as they where in the dream. 

It happens more often, after that. Every other night, Sam dreams about the hospital. They're connected by nothing else than the setting, the time, and they're cryptic and unclear and give him headaches after he wakes up, but he _knows_ it's all part of a bigger picture, he just can't figure out the hows and the whys. There's a woman, sometimes, a nurse. Sam's sure she's different from the others, somehow involved, but he can't puzzle out the reason for that either. 

He doesn't tell Dean about them, because really, what'd that be good for? These aren't memories; Dean did his fair share of hospital stays over the years, starting when he was still in his teens, but Sam would remember if there’d ever been a close call like this – the near-dying kind of hospitalization.

And hey, it's not like Dean and him talk about much else than the apocalypse, the newest commands from his angel buddies or the hunt of the week lately, anyway. Next on the list is a small town that seems to have figured out how to evade death, and Dean's not wrong when he remarks how strange their lives are at Sam's suggestion to interview a recently deceased twelve-year-old via a séance.

They learn that demons are involved in this one in a rather drastic fashion. 

Sam's phone rings twice while he's busy maneuvering his knocked-out brother into the passenger seat after their run-in with Alastair in the graveyard. One of them is Bobby, telling him that this isn't a random case; it's a seal. The next call is Ruby. 

He seizes the opportunity and to call her back while Dean's still out cold in their room. 

“Had another run-in with the big gun, I hear,” she says.

“Yeah.” He can't quite keep the pride out of his voice. “Went a whole lot better than the last time.”

“Don't get too smug. You still need a lot of practice. That's why I'm calling.” She pauses, takes in a breath, like she's not sure how he's going to take what she's about to say next. “There's a demon in town. Foot soldier, not in on anything. No use bothering to interrogate him.” 

“So? Why are you telling me about him, then?” 

“I want you to go and kill him anyway.” 

“Kill him? You mean, exorcise –“ 

“No,” she cuts in. “I mean, _kill_ him. You're ready, Sam, I know you are. Consider it a workout. A test run. We're getting closer to Lilith, and you need to be prepared.” 

His first thought is to say no. He's not ready, he's not anywhere _near_ ready, but... He just went a round with Alastair and came out on top. Blowing out a low-rank demon can't possibly be harder than that. “Okay, yeah. Tell me where to find him.” 

She gives him an address in a rundown apartment complex, the kind you stay at when your other options are the bridge or a shelter. Getting in is easy; no one cares about who comes or goes here, and the tenants probably change too often for anyone to memorize their neighbors' faces. The door's easy to break; Sam's in as fast as if he'd used a key.

Inside the apartment, everything happens quickly. Sam pins the demon to the wall as it comes out of the kitchen bearing a plate that clatters to the ground in a mess of sandwiches and pickles. It has no time to scream before Sam's imaginary hand closes around its windpipe.

The whole thing is over in less than ten minutes, and Sam's out of the building and on his way back to the motel in fifteen. He doesn't get rid of the body; instead, he locks it in a closet. 

Place like that, no one's likely to care until the body stinks up the joint. 

 

***

 

The high Sam rides after icing Alastair gets stunted by the sight of Dean on the slaughterhouse floor; beaten to a pulp and barely breathing. The first five hours in the hospital are the worst. Dean's unconscious for those and there is no other noise in the room than the machine doing his breathing. 

Like in Sam's dreams. Like a nightmare that became real. 

As he sits there in the hospital room, eyes fixed on his brother as though Dean'd disappear again if he lets him out of his sight, Sam wonders if this is what his dreams were pointing to, if the demon blood has revived his visions too. That still wouldn't explain the age difference between the Dean in the dreams and the Dean he's keeping vigil over in the here and now, but it's the only explanation Sam's got. Not that it matters much. Who the fuck cares about strange dreams, with a reality like theirs to navigate? If it was a vision, it didn't help him much; Dean ended up here anyway. No use poring over it in hindsight. 

Cas comes and goes – unhelpful and deaf to Sam's anger like angels tend to be. 

Dean wakes on his own sometime in the morning, the ventilation comes off shortly after. Of course, the first thing he does is demanding for Sam to go and get some rest. 

Chances are, Dean's not being entirely altruistic – Sam gone means a talk postponed, no one to pester him about what happened and how he feels for a little while longer – but Sam decides to play along and give him his space. He returns to the hospital after a few hours of restless sleep in the car instead of a motel room. It's gotten dark out in the meantime, but the nurse on duty doesn't try to send him away. 

Dean's awake. He rolls over when Sam sits down next to his bed, but turns back around after he's glanced at him. After a few beats of silence, he whispers hoarsely, “You should go.” 

“I just got back here, not gonna go anywhere. Forget it.” 

“No,” Dean replies, takes a breath that causes him to cough. A few moments pass before he continues, his voice so raw and raspy that it makes Sam's throat hurt in sympathy. “I mean, _go_. Get away. Be done.” 

And Sam doesn't know what to reply to that; he's honestly speechless. All he manages is a stunned “ _What?_ ”

“You should check out while you still can. Get away from this, from me, from the fucking apocalypse. All of it. It's not your fight.” 

The reminder that it's Dean the angels bet their money on makes Sam's blood run faster with barely repressed anger and frustration, but the key part of that sentence was the _from me_ ; that's more important right now. “Dean, what are you talking about? What'd Alastair say or do, what made you... You don't mean that.” 

“Yeah, I mean it.” 

“No. You don't. And you gotta know that it's bullshit, I won't do that.” 

There's some rustling in the bed, but with Dean's back turned to him and in the dark room, Sam can't see what Dean's doing. “He told me that I was the first seal. Hell, breaking, the torturing, that started it all. They had to topple the domino in front of the line first, he said. Tried it with Dad, too, but he didn't break.” 

“Demons lie.” 

“I asked Cas. He said it's true. They tried to make it to Hell, before I... But they were too late. That's why they raised me from there. I'm not special. It's not a second chance.” He snorts, a bitter imitation of laughter. “They want me to fix the mess I made.” 

And wouldn’t that be just like the angels, to drop a bombshell like that on Dean when he's at his lowest already, and because of something _they_ made him do in the first place. Sam clenches his hands into fists, fights to keep his voice even and reassuring. “So what? We'll fix it together. That's what we've been doing all year, anyway. This doesn't change anything.” 

Dean doesn't respond. He shifts again on the bed. “I'm tired. Gonna get some sleep. Stay here. Go. I don't care.” 

Sam stays. He's going to stay no matter what Dean says, did, or will do. Even if Dean really is the one who started it all – and Sam doesn't trust either the angels or the demons to tell that story truthfully and without an agenda behind every word – Sam still isn't convinced his brother has to be the one who ends it, too.

In fact, as he watches his brother's tormented body on the bed, slightly curled in on himself and straining with the effort of something so simple as breathing in and out, Sam's surer than ever that this isn't on Dean. It can't be. He's not strong enough. 

But Sam will be. 

 

***

 

Their lives are plenty weird on any given day, but finding out they have a half-brother their father kept well hidden is a whole different brand of fucked-up. It seem to be so shockingly human a problem, at least, when so many other things they have to battle with on a daily basis aren't. 

Dean doesn't seem to see it that way, judging from the way he lashes out at the kid from the moment they meet him. The face Dean makes when they see the pictures, when Adam goes on about fishing and baseball games... Yeah, that isn't Dean having a bad day or being annoyed with Dad for lying to them. It's Dean openly hurt, and as per usual he bites everyone's head off to cover it up. 

His protective streak kicks in all right, though. There's no question that the kid needs protection, they just disagree about how and from what. 

Dean throws a fit about Dad's wishes and runs out, leaving Sam to deal with Adam, and that's exactly what Sam intends to do. The 101 on guns is a start to that, as well as a rundown of the most common monsters, a few words on the importance of silver and salt, for starters. They can teach him more in depth later, when they found what killed his mom, made sure he gets payback for her death. 

At some point, Adam clears his throat uncomfortably, but doesn't come out with what's bugging him until Sam stops in what he's doing, sets the knife he was showing him aside and gives him a raised eyebrow. 

“Dean, is he always so... Irritable? Must've been fun, to grow up with him for a big brother,” Adam says, makes a face.

“It was, actually. Dad was gone more often than he's been around, and Dean... Dean raised me, pretty much. Did a good job of it, too.” He points a finger at Adam, mock-threatening. “Don't tell him I said that.”

“Hey, nah, I won't.” Adam holds his hands up. “I bet the two of you have seen a lot, in this job. You really been at it since you were kids?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I wanted out, when I was your age, but not anymore.” 

Adam inclines his head. “Sounds like there's more to the story. What changed your mind?” 

The first thought Sam has is to serve him some bullshit about the feeling you get from saving people and how it's a hard job but someone's got to do it, but he thinks twice of it. The kid's family. He deserves the full truth, or at least as much of it as Sam thinks he can stomach for the moment. 

“Dean. Something nasty took him, a demon. And even though he's back now, I gotta, you know. Get it, make sure it doesn't hurt him or anyone else ever again,” Sam says. He doesn't mention how he failed to save him in the first place, had to wait for heaven and the angels to step in and haul Dean back home. 

“Revenge.” Adam nods, looking way too old for his age all of a sudden. “What was it?” 

Sam picks up the knife again and holds it out, handle first, to Adam. “That's a long story. Let's cover the basics first?” 

He never gets to tell him; turns out it he was talking to a Ghoul wearing his half-brother's face rather than the real deal the whole time, and things end with said Ghoul trying to bleed him dry like a pig. Not such a human problem after all. 

As soon as Dean frees him, Sam takes a few steps away from the table, but he sways on his feet like a wobbly foal, and next thing he knows Dean pulls him in and half-carries him to the car with one arm around his shoulder and the other around his waist. 

On the drive back to the motel, he drifts off twice, both times roughly awoken by Dean's hands pushing at his shoulder. Dean curses under his breath, calls Sam names in the same breath as he assures him that this is nothing, he'll be fine, they got this. 

Once they're at the motel, Dean lays him out at the bed, both arms angled away from his body and on top of a generous pad of towels – stitching time. He hisses the first time the needle bites into his skin, feels his head swim with the effects of blood loss more than the pain. 

Dean stops to squeeze his shoulder. “Hey. Stay with me. No checkin' out, not until I can be sure you'll come back up.”

“It's not that bad.” 

“Says the guy who's about to pass out on me”, Dean shoots back, voice low and thick with worry. “Sorry if I don't take your opinion on this, Sammy.” 

He makes quick work of the stitches, the benefit of long years of practice, and holds out a glass of water and a few pills to Sam after he's done. Sam downs both obediently while Dean switches on the radio, cranks it to a high volume, and pushes at Sam to sit up. 

“Gonna go and clean up Adam's place. You gotta promise me you won't fall asleep, okay? Yeah?”

Sam nods, regrets the motion instantly because it makes him drowsy and slightly nauseous. He saw the amount of blood he lost. It wasn’t that much more than what'd have been taken in a blood donation and it doesn't account for how shitty he feels. That may have to be related to the contents of the blood, the added extra that dribbled out of him alongside. But he can hardly tell Dean that; besides, Sam needs him gone to get at his emergency stash. “Promise. No sleep.” 

Dean nods, obviously not the least bit reassured, but he leaves, and Sam doesn't waste any time to dig for the small flask of blood. 

The stash doesn't last him very long. At first, he's groggy, exhausted, and painfully _normal_. The blood is – was – like a constant thrum under his skin that kept him energized and alert; losing that makes him feel unfocused and empty. 

The jitters start shortly after Cas' vessel bolts on them. He manages to hide the shakes from Dean, passing them off as nerves, but of course Dean notices that something's off anyway. Hard not to when he's witnessed Sam shooting blanks at the demons who tried to capture the Jimmy's family . 

Drinking from the demon in the warehouse is a knee-jerk, spur of the moment decision; there's so much at stake, Ruby doesn't even answer his calls, and he _needs_ his power. 

He doesn't realize how royally he screwed up until the door of the panic room clicks shut behind him. 

 

***

 

Alastair, his younger self, Mom, even Dean... Sam gets that they're hallucinations, figments of his own mind talking back at him. None of it is real. 

He doesn't trust the wide-open door, either. As he walks out the door and up the stairs and outside, he expects to wake up still tied to that cot. He half-believes that when he runs into Bobby – it brings up the ugly memory of stabbing him more than a year ago, after the Mystery Spot. 

All make-believe, smoke and mirrors. 

That he's really free doesn't sink in until sunrise the next morning, on the road. He changes cars – the opposite of what Dean'd assume he'd take, to dislodge him – and drives for a while longer until he calls Ruby. To clear his head. Reconsider. Weigh up the facts once more. 

But his Mom – hallucination or not – was right. He's the only one strong enough to do what needs to be done and stop Lilith in time.

Ruby doesn't answer and for half an hour Sam fears he's on his own. That she's still playing hard-to-get, too busy with leads on Lilith to spare a minute or two for a phone call, let alone to pick up strays that got put on detox by their big brothers. When the phone rings, though, he knows it's her, calling back. Dean didn't call a single time, and Sam doesn’t expect him to. 

“Hey,” she says. “Sorry for falling off the radar. I was –“ 

“I don't care. We need to meet.” 

“Sam, what's wrong?” Her voice takes on the low and more melodic tone that she tends to use when she senses he's upset. He never cared for that much, but now it's more soothing than it has any right to be. 

“You were gone. And I needed – Ruby, the flask was empty and I was running on fumes and I cut up another demon. Drank from her, in a fight. And Dean saw. He locked me up. They did. I don't know how I got out, but I am, and we gotta do it _now_. Lilith. Now or never. There won't be another chance, I know it. “ The words tumble out of him too fast and in a disarray, and he takes a deep breath to stop himself from babbling further. 

“Okay. Yeah. Where are you now?” 

“Minnesota, just outside Monticello. I'm gonna keep driving for a little while longer – just snatched another car. And then I'll find us a place and text you the address.” 

He chooses a romantic little hotel in Cold Spring and books the honeymoon suite, to throw Dean further, but it's no use. Dean finds him anyway. 

 

***

 

The image of Dean on the floor, where Sam put him, wheezing for air, won't leave Sam alone. It's there every time he closes his eyes, while Dean's words resound in his head; the exact ones Dad used. 

_If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back._

Maybe he shouldn't. After all that happened, it's probably better for them if they stay apart. Better for Dean. Sam sometimes has trouble recognizing the face that stares back at him in the mirror, and chances are Dean shouldn't be anywhere near that person. 

Sam and Ruby set out to get at Lilith's personal chef, currently hiding away in a delivery ward nurse at a hospital. It goes well, until she turns the wheel over to the original owner of the body during the interrogation. And the girl keeps pleading and screaming. On the table in the cabin they kept her in, outside, in the trunk of the car. She screams herself hoarse, and still doesn't stop. 

How much that wears him down doesn't escape Ruby, when they're on the road. “It's no different than before. That the host is in control right now changes nothing. The demon bitch is still in there, and she's doing this on purpose.” 

Sam closes his eyes for a second, rubs at them. “I know.” 

“Then ignore it. Don't let her get to you. She's the way to get to Lilith, the _only_ way right now, and you said it yourself: we might not get another shot at this.” 

“Yeah,” Sam snarls. “ _I know_ what I said.”

Ruby glances over to him. “We're trying to save the world. Wrong time to grow a conscience.” 

“Or the best one. I should call Dean, apologize. Tell him where we are –“ 

The tires squeal as Ruby slams on the brakes, steers the car onto the side of the road. “Okay, you know what? I'm done playing nice. Charade's over.” 

Sam blinks in shock and confusion. “What?”

She turns over in her seat, looks straight at him. “Do you remember when you asked me about the demon at the crossroads, the one who turned you down the night before I came back?” 

“Yeah, I do,” Sam answers, tentatively. As much as he tries, he can't make heads and tails of what's happening right now, what her point is with this. 

“See, I lied when I said I don't know what he meant.” She sounds exasperated and out of patience, like he's playing stupid and refusing to get it just to annoy her. “Any strange dreams lately, Sam?” 

Dread, utter horror, curls his stomach into knots. “How do you know?” 

“They're not dreams, they're memories. And guess who made you remember?” She pauses, grins as she waits for him to get it. “Yeah, that's right. _We_ did.” 

“Memories? You mean all that really happened? Dean in the hospital, nearly dying?” 

“Yes. And he would have died, if you hadn't made a deal to save him, Sam.” 

Sam barely manages to push out the next question: “So I'm going to Hell?”

“No, Dumbo,” Ruby says and pushes out a huff of air. She raises her hand, lays it to his chest, smiles as he flinches. ”We have no use for your soul.” 

At her touch, it's like someone ripped down a wall that kept the memories of the deal locked away, and now they tumble out in a flash. Spirit Lake. Dean after he nearly drowned. The hospital. Linda. _All you have to do in return is grant us a freebie. In roundabout ten years, we'll come knocking. Someone like me is gonna ask you to do something for us, and if you're a good boy and do as we say, no one's gonna get hurt. Not then, and not you or Dean, anyway. If you refuse, this deal will be null and void and Dean will pretty much drop dead on the spot._

Sam gasps, and Ruby looks downright cheerful. “Yeah, that's right. I'm that someone, and now I'm asking that favor.” 

“That makes no sense. Don’t you want me to kill Lilith, stop the apocalypse?” 

“And save the world? Nah, you're right, that'd make no sense. We want you to rise Lucifer from his cage in hell and _start_ the fucking apocalypse. Lilith is the key to that door.” Ruby stares at him with a broad grin on her face, and she actually looks excited, although her face falls when she notices he's horrified. Sam's ears are ringing, and he can't get a single word out, but she doesn't seem to care. She starts the engine back up and resumes their drive to the convent. 

Where he's supposed to unleash the devil. 

He doesn't protest until Ruby parks in front of the old cloister, gets out of the car, and makes the nurse climb out of the trunk. She's got the girl by the hair, hauls her along and pushes her face into Sam's rolled-down window. 

“Come on, Sam,” Ruby cajoles, half-hidden behind the other body. “Time for your energy drink!”

“What if I don't?” Sam's not sure where he finds the bravado for it, but he juts his chin out and does his best to summon a glare. “Walk away?”

“Oh, you're free to go wherever you like. We won't bother you again. But your brother? Not so much. I haven't read the fine print myself, so I don't know if he'd snuff out of existence – “she raises her free hand so that Sam can see it and snaps her fingers – “or if you'd book him another ticket into the Pit. Tricky thing, this little tangle of deals you Winchesters got going. You, your mom, Dean... Hard to say what happens. But if you do this, Lucifer will make sure you're rewarded. He can give you anything you want. He can call off Dean's deal, keep him safe _forever_. You're so special to him, Sam. To us. Do this one thing for us, and you'll never have to worry about your brother again. Or about anything else. We'll take good care of you both.” 

She bends down to retrieve the knife from her boot – not a very graceful maneuver because she has to take the other woman with her – and holds it out to him. 

Dean's life against the fate of the world. It's a surprisingly easy choice, and yet, Sam hesitates. He's being selfish and he knows it. But... It's Dean. Sam let him be taken once, and he's not going to let it happen again. Damn the consequences, very literally. 

Sam nods, takes the knife to pocket it, and Ruby cheers. 

"Yes! I knew you'd be a good boy." She hauls the nurse up to a stand and drags her towards the convent. Sam follows at a distance. 

Inside, the building smells like just about every other old-fashioned church Sam has been to, that unique mixture of decay and incense. Right now, it makes him want to hurl, like it somehow highlights the wrongness of what he's about to do. 

The sick feeling in Sam's stomach gets so much worse when the blood flows over his hands, warm and with that intense metallic smell he knows from Ruby. It makes him hyper-aware of the _human being_ he just killed, of her hair tickling his face and the lavender smell of her shampoo – no perfume, not as a nurse – and his gaze falls to the hand she clawed around his arm in her death throes, the wedding band that rests on her ring finger. 

He's killing an innocent person. Again. And it won't be the last one by far if he lets _the fucking devil_ walk free. The whole world won't be the same, and all that to save one person. The single most important person in Sam's life, but still – he was wrong. It's too much, too high a price. 

Sam puts the knife away and pushes the lifeless body at Ruby, careless of whether she catches it or it slumps down to the floor. "I gotta get out of here. Get some air." 

Ruby inclines her head, but she doesn't seem to doubt his bout of nerves; he must look the part. She doesn't try to stop him when he runs out of the kitchen, down the hallways and out the front door.

He pulls his phone out, doesn't bother scrolling through his contact list, just pushes in Dean's number by memory. It's picked up after the first ring, but the voice on the other end of the line is not his brother. 

"Sam," says Castiel, calm and toneless. 

"Where's Dean?” Sam asks, too caught up in everything else that happened tonight to wonder why the angel'd answer Dean's phone. “I need to talk to him. Now." 

"Your brother will be with you in a moment. He's on his way. You just have to wait exactly where you are." 

Sam doesn't even begin to understand, but he clings to the knowledge that _Dean is on his way_. Dean will be here. They'll do this together. In the meantime, Sam takes a pocket knife to slice the tires of Ruby's car; he begs whoever might still be listening that she won't get suspicious and come out to check on him until Dean's arrived. 

But Castiel didn't lie. No more than a minute or two pass before Sam hears the familiar rumble of the Impala, and he exhales with relief. 

 

***

 

Holing up at Bobby's is probably not the smartest idea they ever had – that's where everyone will look for them first, to say nothing about how it's almost a day's drive away – but seeing how both Heaven and Hell can track their whereabouts anyway, Dean argues that they might as well go back there and get Bobby's input. 

Sam's surprised they don't get snatched right out of the car, if he starts to think about it. Dean's right, where they are won't matter much.

They fall silent after that's decided. Sam itches with the need to ask Dean what happened, how he got here, how Cas is involved and how he morphed back from the brain-washed angelic soldier into the guy who wanted to help them do the right thing. But he knows Dean's bound to have some questions of his own. Sam can see Dean side-eying him, every now and then, and he doesn't dare speak first.

Eventually, Dean gets the ball rolling. “You're probably wondering what happened while you were out and about with the demon bitch.” 

There's not half as much vitriol in Dean's voice as the words imply; he mainly sounds resigned. Tired. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I am.”

“Got snatched up by the angels. They wanted to keep their investment safe until the big showdown. And guess what? Assholes never wanted to stop the apocalypse. Their plan was to let it all happen, and they were counting on a win. Heaven on earth.”

“How'd you get away?” 

“Cas. He came to his senses just in time, bailed us both out and zapped us to Chuck. And Mister Prophet told us where to find you.” That's when Dean looks over, and Sam wants to vanish into thin air at his glare after all. “He told us that you'd found Lilith and I had to haul my ass over to the convent. So, Sam. Your turn to spill. What happened over there?”

Sam lowers his eyes and keeps them firmly downward, talks to the dashboard rather than Dean's face. “We found a demon, member of Lilith's entourage, made her tell us where she'd be. I had second thoughts, told Ruby I needed some air, and called you. Cas picked up. He said to hang tight, that you were on your way, and here we are.” 

“Did she tell you that Lilith was the last seal?” Fumbling for words, Sam remains silent until Dean presses on, louder this time. “ _Did she?_. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, under his breath. “Before I made a run for it. Why do you think I wanted to get away from her?” 

Dean glances at him, expression tight and guarded. "You're not tellin' me everything." 

Sam looks up, and he briefly considers keeping his mouth shut about the deal, to own up for everything he did, every choice he made, without using that as an excuse. But there have been more than enough lies. "You're right. But man, I don't even know where to start." 

Something like surprise flickers across Dean's features, as though he hadn’t expected honesty. "Try the beginning," he says, shoots Sam a wary smile. 

"Okay. Uh. When you were about eighteen you got sick. Really sick. Hospitalized, hunt gone wrong, the whole shebang. And it was bad." 

"I don't remember that, Sam, what are you talking ab–" 

"Let me finish. It was so bad that we thought you were going to die. I thought you would. And I, uh." Sam can't bring the words _demon_ or _deal_ past his lips, settles for something more vague "I brought you back." He hopes Dean will do the math for him. 

Dean does. His eyes narrow in thought for a moment, but he figures it out quickly. "Brought me back? Sam, you made a deal? Is that what you're tryin' to tell me?" 

All Sam can do is nod. 

Dean runs a hand down his face, not taking his other from the steering wheel. "How? You were a teenager, neither of us had any fucking idea about demons or crossroads or any of that shit back then. And why don't I remember any of it? Why didn't you _tell me_?"

"The demon came to me. It demanded a favor, not my soul. More like Mom’s deal, back when Yellow Eyes killed Dad. And I didn't remember either, not until today," Sam says, rushing through the words, and averts his eyes. 

"So? What happened up there that made you remember? Don't make me worm every word outta you." 

"Ruby called in that favor. Told me about the deal, gave me back the memories of it. Said if I refuse, they'd roll the deal back and you die. Like you would have back then. Dean, she said... Oh, _fuck_." 

"What? What'd she say?" 

Sam looks over at his brother, then, straight into his eyes, because Sam screwed this up. Or Dad. Or Mom. Every single one of them has been in the situation of losing a loved one to forces bigger than them, and they each made the wrong choice, couldn't bear the grief. Dean's just the last one to fall in line, and he's the one who paid that debt. Who actually went to Hell and might be going back for seconds if they don't find a way out. "She said chances are you'll end up back in the Pit. That your deal's still valid, if you die again." 

This time it's Dean who breaks eye contact, turns his head away. "So either you set Lucifer free, or I go back Downstairs? Terrific." 

"You might. She wasn't sure," Sam says, not sure who he's trying to convince: Dean or himself. "I dunno, maybe she was trying to scare me into going along." 

Dean doesn't reply for a long moment, and when he does, his voice is low, toneless, all emotion concealed. Sam knows Dean's made a decision, and now he'll do what he has to in order to make sure Sam gets there, too. "Probably, yeah. Demons lie, and she had something to gain from you believing that." 

Sam's phone rings, and Sam startles. He pulls it out and checks the caller ID, hopes for Bobby, but life's not that kind to them. "Ruby." 

"Pick up." 

Sam takes a breath, closes his eyes, and pushes the button. "What do you want?" 

"Oh, you know what I want. Offer's still on the table. You come back here, do as you're told like a good boy, and we all get to walk away in one piece, including Dean. If you don't, I'll make damn sure your brother's a doornail before sundown." She sounds confident and cocksure, like she doesn't even entertain the possibility that Sam's going to let his brother die again. "You turn around now, and I'll forget about your little hissy fit. How does that sound?" 

Sam hesitates, searches for Dean's gaze. Dean smiles at him – in the same way that he used to when Sam was little and looked his way for reassurance – and nods. The message is as clear as if he'd said it out loud: _Go ahead, tell her to suck it_. 

"No. Not gonna happen," Sam says, flips the phone shut before he can think twice and throws it into the backseat. He turns his watery gaze back to Dean. "I'm so sorry." 

Dean doesn't respond, shakes his head. He's still smiling, taps a steady rhythm onto the steering wheel; not a song Sam immediately recognizes, none of the big favorites. It does sound familiar, though, and Sam loses himself in the attempt to figure out what it is. 

They don't talk anymore. Dean takes the next exit, and they drive around until they find an abandoned farmhouse. They leave the car out front, don't take anything but some salt and chalk and the knife, and settle in for the rest of the night. 

Neither of them sleeps. Together, they wait for the sun to rise.


End file.
